


shiver that i can't shake

by nightwideopen



Category: Marvel
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Baseball, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Deaf Clint Barton, Domestic Avengers, Fluff and Humor, Identity Porn, M/M, Millenial Bucky Barnes, Stark Tower, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-07 13:15:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21458641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightwideopen/pseuds/nightwideopen
Summary: He's become addicted to the little smirks Barton sends his way when he catches Bucky staring, to the mini conversations they have in sign language that put a huge grin on Barton's face every time without fail. Bucky just can't get enough of the way the guy lights up like the sun, always smiling, always golden.It's fucking infectious. Bucky wants to know him so badly.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 67
Kudos: 326





	shiver that i can't shake

**Author's Note:**

> this is a whole lot of words for a fic where a whole lot of nothing happens. 
> 
> title from habit by louis tomlinson

Bucky used to like baseball. Honest to god, he did. He went to every game that he could manage, making the most of his dad’s season tickets year after year until things got, well, complicated. But it was his favorite thing in the world; hot dogs and cracker jacks and foam fingers litter the memories of his childhood and teenage years. Baseball was one of those constant things that never soured, that he never got bored of. He could’ve done it forever.

But these days the crack of the bat sounds too much like a gunshot, so instead he stays home watching cooking shows, curating personal playlists, and petting his cat. You know, _safe_ activities.

Sometimes he thinks about how Steve probably hasn’t been to a game since the Dodgers we're still in Brooklyn, and how he gets this stupid crestfallen look on his face every time baseball is so much as mentioned in passing. Games on television in the windows of electronics stores, headlines in the paper of the latest record broken. There’s just something painfully wistful about the kind of look Steve Rogers gets on his face when he thinks about the past. Makes you feel bad without even meaning to. It's not_ Bucky’s _fault the guy was frozen for seventy years and has the busiest schedule of all time. It's a wonder he even catches games on television most of the time.

Bucky accidentally mentions it offhandedly one day when he meets Steve for lunch in DUMBO. He hardly expects anything to come out of it, doesn't really _want_ anything to come out of it. He just overhears someone talking about yesterday's game and says, “Ah, to be able to attend baseball games,” with his usual air of self pity and sarcasm and Steve just starts _beaming. _

The next thing he knows he’s at his monthly check up for his prosthetic and Tony is going on and _on_ about–

“What the hell _are_ you going on about, Stark?”

Tony squints at him through his magnifying loupes. “Baseball,” he says, deadpan. “Do you ever listen when I talk?”

“I actively try not to.”

“Well, _anyway_.” He goes back to doing whatever it is he does when he’s got one of the plates of Bucky’s arm open. “I was saying that I don’t know if you know this but the army – the government. Well me, mostly, because Steve mentioned it and I catalogue pretty much everything that Steve mentions for future ideas–”

“Tony!”

“_Basically_, there’s two seats at Yankee Stadium that no one sits in because they’re reserved for you. Well, dedicated to you. And people made a silent agreement not to sit in them. Because you saved Steve’s life and dozens of other lives and that was honestly the least anybody could do to thank you for it.”

Bucky blanches. “You built me an arm, Tony.”

“It’s still not enough,” Tony says forcefully. He sets down his tools and slouches down on his stool in a rare sobering moment that hasn’t happened between the two of them since Bucky first came back with no life in his eyes and Steve's blood on his hands. “It’ll never be enough.”

Bucky takes his arm back and closes the plate, playing extra attention to listen for the little _click_ that indicates it’s locked shut. He doesn’t know what to say. He’s tired of being the hero, tired of everyone acting like they owe him for the choice that he made. He doesn’t know what to _say_ anymore. Tony knows this.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Tony amends. “Just, if you want to go to a game, I’ll buy out the whole row. I’ll buy out the whole damn _section_ if that's what you need_. _You can sit in a box, or the press booth, or right behind home plate if you damn well feel like it. If you want to go see a baseball game? I’ll do whatever I have to do to make it happen, okay? Don’t make me beg. It’s not a good look.”

Bucky smirks. “I dunno… I think I want you to beg a little more. Maybe get on your knees a little.”

“Oh for God’s sake, Bucky–”

☆

It’s hot. It’s fucking_ hot_ is the first thing Bucky realizes. How the hell did he ever survive this? Surely the world must be ending at this exact moment because there’s no way it’s this fucking hot.

“You’re being dramatic,” Sam tells him. “Maybe don’t wear all black, long sleeves and jeans in August. It's like seventy five degrees. It's fine.”

Steve, from Bucky’s other side, agrees vehemently.

“I hate both of you.”

But even while he’s scowling, melting in long sleeves to hide his arm, he’s fucking grateful. The game hasn’t started yet because they arrived excessively early in order to avoid the crowds. They had shuffled into their section to find that Tony really did buy out the whole row – and the row behind it, just to be safe – and lo and behold, in the front row of the right field section were two seats with tiny golden plaques on them that said:

_Dedicated to Sergeant James Barnes, whose bravery and sacrifice is honored and cherished._

It’s fucking cheesy, if you ask Bucky, but he appreciated the sentiment all the same. Kind of. He’s still tired of being the hero.

“They make it sound like I died,” he’d said, trying to keep any intonation out of his voice, but it ends up sounding half amused anyway. 

Steve punched him for his troubles.

Presently, he realizes that he’s missed a whole hell of a lot in the five years that he hasn’t been following baseball. There’s quite a new line up of players, faces he doesn’t recognize, some that he only barely does from the minor leagues. The pitcher is the same. The shortstop, third baseman and two of the outfielders remain unchanged as well. But then the empty space in front of them is being filled by one of the new faces, and Bucky… Bucky thinks he’s been doing himself a disservice.

He doesn’t notice how hard he’s staring until Sam waves a hand in front of his face and says, “You’re drooling, man.”

Bucky snaps his mouth shut. He hadn’t even realized it was open. Jesus. It’s not his fault that he has _eyes_ and can see the stupid hot player that’s stretching not even fifty feet away. Bucky can’t even properly see his face from under his hat, but he’s not all that concerned when the player’s ass looks like _that_ in those pants. Long, messy blonde hair is sticking out from under his cap and as he picks up his mitt to catch a few warm up balls, he flashes this bright smile to Bucky’s section. He waves. Everyone behind Bucky cheers. 

Oh, so he’s a fan favorite.

“That’s Clint Barton,” Steve says, finally being helpful. “He got recruited from a little league that he wasn’t even part of. He’d just show up every week and played on whatever team needed a player and whichever team he played on _won._ Every time. He’s played every position better than anyone else can. Pitcher’s injured? Barton takes his place. Shortstop’s out? Barton’s up. Catcher? Barton.”

Bucky misses the first pitch, watching Barton watch the infield.

“We get it, Steve, you love him,” Sam says jokingly.

Steve smacks his arm, but just keeps talking. “Pitching is actually his specialty but he prefers right field. He’ll dive after literally anything. He can make it to the other side of the field in half a second. Anything in his 100 foot radius? It’s his. No one else even goes after it. He’s a goddamn legend; he’ll probably be in the hall of fame within in the next two years. Kid’s breaking records all over the place.”

Even Sam gives an impressed hum as he scrolls through Barton’s stats on his phone to confirm what Steve is saying. Bucky will do his own research later, probably, but _damn_, that is impressive. 

The way Barton’s pinstripes look on him is pretty impressive, too.

Bucky googles him that night. It's kind of an accident. He's just curious. As a fan. A baseball fan, not a Clint Barton fan. He wants to know… stats. Yeah, that's it.

Stats.

Somehow it's been two hours and Bucky is deep into Barton’s Instagram before he even knows what's happened. The guy has had the account for six years and has over a thousand posts. 

Bucky dials Sharon’s number.

“_Hello?_”

“Help.”

“_Unless you're actually dying, I'm hanging up._”

“No, wait!” The outburst is so close to a yell that Alpine startles where he's asleep in Bucky's lap. “Sorry. To Alpine. Sharon, listen. He has a _dog_. He posts more thirst traps than Tony. Sharon _I'm going to cry just looking at him_.”

Sharon sighs on the other end of the phone. 

“_Context_,” she says impatiently. “_I need context._”

So Bucky rehashes the day and the game, waxing poetic about the illegally hot right fielder that wouldn't stop turning around to interact with the crowd like he was a damn rock star on a stage. Everyone in the rows behind them ate it up, too, and Bucky probably stuck out sorely in his all-black attire, sitting dead smack in the middle of two empty rows. Barton wouldn't stop smiling, and tossed every ball he could to someone sitting in what's obviously been deemed as _his_ section.

“I would've called Steve but he’d just say _I told you so_ and then tell Sam.”

“_Oh, you've got it bad, don't you? You saw him one time and you're obsessed!_”

“Sharon, you don't understand. He makes videos of himself drinking coffee in front of a mirror when he first wakes up. Everyday. There's a hundred posts of bed hair and abs.” Bucky is acutely aware that he sounds slightly hysterical. “Just… videos of his dog licking his face with no caption!”

Sharon is silent for a long moment. And then… 

“_Link me_.”

☆

The fifth game that Bucky goes to, only Sam is with him. It's nice, not needing Steve as a buffer anymore. Their friendship has graduated from circumstantial to stable, to the point where Bucky can't imagine Sam not being in his life. 

“Am I giving off gay vibes?”

Sam turns to Bucky very slowly and deliberately, making a pleading face like he's praying that Bucky didn't just say those words.

“What?” he asks hopelessly.

“You’re useless,” Bucky says, fixing his shirt collar. “A fellow gay would understand.”

Sam sighs. “Walk me through it, man.”

“I know _he's _gay, because Instagram, but he doesn't know _I'm_ gay. And I need him to. Maybe he's dumb and won't notice, so I need to make it obvious. Am I being obvious?”

Bucky turns his chin up and spreads his arms. He's being ridiculous, he knows. He_ knows_. But he's pretty sure that Barton’s been looking at him. Like, stealing glances looking. Like he's curious about Bucky and his leather jackets and ripped jeans and dark sunglasses. And that's a good thing. So Bucky wants Barton to know that Bucky thinks it's a good thing. 

“Is it homophobic if I say yes?”

“Yes.”

“Then yes.”

Bucky gasps dramatically. "I'm telling Steve."

He pretends to reach for his phone and Sam smacks his hands away from his pockets.

“Stop that. Listen, you look fine and you're being painfully obvious. You might as well be holding a poster that says ‘please fuck me mr. baseball man.’”

Bucky doesn't get the chance to say _maybe I should _because the crowd has jumped into an uproar at the fly ball headed their way. Barton is there before Bucky can even think to look for him and the ball drops neatly into his glove, almost as if he'd thrown it into the air himself. He turns to the cheering crowd, arms spread wide, looks right at Bucky and winks.

Then he makes the ASL sign for_ awesome_ that's most definitely not directed at Bucky but Bucky understands anyway. 

Bucky prays Barton is looking as he signs back_ no, better than that._

Barton lights up, grinning hard as he throws the ball back into the infield. Then he turns back to Bucky.

_Aren't you hot in that jacket?_

Bucky rolls his eyes. _I'm fine._

_Yeah,_ Barton signs back. _You sure are._ The double entendre is written across his facial expressions.

And luckily Barton turns back around to pay attention to the game, missing the way Bucky's mouth drops open stupidly. 

He turns to Sam.

“What the fuck,” Bucky says, stunned.

Sam just laughs. “What the fuck, indeed.”

☆

Bucky isn't… famous. Even if he was, he probably wouldn't say it. There's just a certain lack of anonymity that comes with being the first participant in a highly experimental and risky medical research trial. That, and the fact that Tony was successful on the _first_ try… it made Bucky's status as Lab Rat Number One highly prestigious. A hundred interviews and a dozen photoshoots later, Bucky’s Instagram following is more than what it might be were he not walking around with a robotic arm that costs more than he ever would've made working a 9-5. 

And that's _if _anyone had hired him. 

So now he gets brand deals and invitations to things like this, where a bunch of famously disabled people get together and tell a bunch of small, disabled children that they can do anything. It's heartwarming, and Bucky is always grateful to be a part of it, but it's a lot of pressure. He's not really _doing _anything with his life. He's a glorified personal assistant that really just gets paid to hang out with Tony while he pretends to run diagnostics to disguise his gossip. 

Pepper was nice enough to accompany Bucky tonight, though, and that takes a bit of the pressure off. She's good at holding conversation and steering people away from asking Bucky questions like _Is your arm waterproof? _and _Can you like, feel stuff with it? _

Yes and yes. He's said it about a million times. Does anyone actually_ watch_ his interviews?

Fame isn't all it's cracked up to be.

But Pepper lets him eat his body weight in free food at the buffet and keeps a hand on his shoulder when kids with their own prosthetics come up to him for pictures. He smiles. He tells them theirs are just as cool as his. He politely shakes their parents’ hands. He sits back down and resists the urge to order the strongest drink on the menu.

“Checked out yet?” Pepper asks him teasingly. After a few hours of socializing he's been known to space the fuck out and not know what's going on around him. “We don't have to stay much longer, maybe an hour or so.”

“I'm okay.” And because he's bad at making eye contact while he talks, his eyes start to drift across the room. “But I swear if one more person pretends to be left handed just to touch my–”

Bucky squints. He squints _very_ hard. Because surely he can't be seeing Clint Barton, in his pinstripes, signing baseballs and chatting happily to the kids in front of him. He's using sign language as he talks, and Bucky suddenly becomes very aware of something he so blatantly missed. That becomes very clear by the bright purple hearing aids sitting behind Barton’s ears that are usually absent from his attire.

Barton doesn't just _know _sign language. He's deaf. He's disabled. He's like Bucky. They have something in common.

And he must feel Bucky’s eyes on him because he looks up and meets his eyes.

“Oh, fuck,” Bucky accidentally says out loud, quickly averting his stare. 

“What? What is it?” Pepper cranes her neck trying to see what Bucky's seeing. She's just about to give up when she figures it out. “_Oh_, I see. Your boyfriend’s here.”

Bucky groans. “I haven't even spoken two words to the guy. Give it a rest.”

“You've been to ten games in the past three weeks. I'd say a marriage proposal is on the table.”

Doing his best to not dignify Pepper’s teasing with a response, he looks back at towards Barton, who is–

Gone. He's gone. One frantic sweep of the room confirms it.

Bucky does his best to pretend he's not disappointed.

☆

“That’s a fucking _strike_, asshole!_”_ Bucky screams. The row behind them is full today and he gets several grunts of agreement. “Ridiculous.”

Even Barton turns around to smirk at him.

_God, I wish you were umpire instead_, he signs sneakily. 

“You’re blushing,” Steve comments helpfully.

Bucky flips him off without even looking at him. It’s been two months, thirty games, and countless hours of merciless teasing from Steve and Sam alike. 

One would think they'd be tired of it by now.

There's a kid screaming loudly in the section over, his parents doing their best to keep him entertained. They look worse for wear for it, handing him toys and food that he throws into the floor. Bucky almost feels bad, almost wants to go over and try to cheer the kid up himself.

He doesn't realize that he's watching the family so intently until Barton comes into his peripheral vision. The guy actually goes up to them, right up to the screaming baby, and takes his own cap from his head to place it on the kid's. Then he reaches into his mitt and produces the game ball that he presumably just caught and hands it over. The screaming stops, and he traipses back to his position leaving Bucky and the family dumbstruck.

“Oh, fuck,” Bucky mutters under his breath.

As the summer faded away and August bled into September, Bucky had to admit that _maybe_ he had ulterior motives for attending so many Yankees games. He didn't even come to this many games as a kid. And yeah, maybe he didn't quite have as much time or freedom to do so, but still. He's become addicted to the little smirks Barton sends his way when he catches Bucky staring, to the mini conversations they have in sign language that put a huge grin on Barton's face every time without fail. Bucky just can't get enough of the way the guy lights up like the sun, always smiling, always golden.

It's fucking infectious. Bucky wants to know him so badly.

“You know Tony could probably get you to meet him,” Steve points out. If only Bucky had asked. “He’s, like, best friends with Natasha – she’s the one with the red hair who dared Tony to ask me out, remember?” Bucky doesn't. “She works at S.I. doing… something. Nobody really knows. Kind of like you! Anyway, she’s best friends with Pepper. And I know we both know that Pepper doesn’t do things just because _Tony_ asks, but Pepper _loves_ you, let's be real, and she’d definitely–”

“Let it go, Steve.”

“Okay, okay.” Steve puts his hands up in surrender. “But this across the field flirting is… getting to be a bit much. The suspense is killing me.”

Bucky ignores Steve and watches as the pitcher throws a slightly off curveball that the batter hits squarely with the center of his bat. The ball sails towards them, losing height as it gets over the outfield and– Jesus Christ it’s heading right for their section. Bucky leaps to his feet, feeling Steve do the same beside him. The one time he doesn’t bring a mitt… 

Bucky’s braced for the impact of the ball in his hand, or Steve colliding into his side. Hell, he’s even ready for someone leaping over the back of his seat to get to the ball. What Bucky isn’t prepared for, however, is six feet and three inches of pinstripes leaping into the stands and crashing straight into Bucky. Bucky lands squarely on his seat with Clint Barton in his lap. He’s grinning, holding his mitt up over his head in triumph because _he caught the goddamn ball._

“Holy shit,” Bucky breathes.

Barton looks at Bucky, not moving from his lap for some reason. He’s got fucking _stars _in his eyes, looking so damn proud of himself and Bucky almost kind of forgets that the whole stadium is probably looking at them, not to mention the dozens of cameras–

“I know, right?” Clint says manically.

Then he’s gone. He leaps to his feet and propels over the ledge back onto the field, leaving Bucky stunned. Bucky looks at Steve stupidly. 

Steve just laughs as he sticks his phone back into his pocket. “Sam is gonna lose his shit.”

☆

Grocery shopping is supposed to suck, too many options and all that. Bucky never got that memo, even with all the anxiety that lingers in the back of his brain. There's just something about the vaguely unrecognizable music and the soft scuff of his sneakers on the acrylic floors that's… peaceful. No one's going to bother him if he's wrapped in a hoodie and standing in the frozen foods aisle trying to decide on which ice cream to get.

He usually goes with strawberry, but if he wants to spend twenty minutes entertaining the thought of a different flavor in his freezer, that's on him.

Bucky jumps at a voice suddenly coming from behind him.

“It's getting a little cold for ice cream, isn't it?”

Alright, Bucky takes back everything he's ever said about enjoying grocery shopping. He will be finding a new supermarket immediately.

“That's none of your business,” he says without turning around. He grabs the pint of strawberry and lets the door swing shut.

Except, he can't help turning around anyway to get a look at the person who_ dared_ to interrupt his respite from Steve's yammering about_ Grey's Anatomy_. He expects the person to be his height at least, but he's severely miscalculated when he turns and gets an eyeful of purple hoodie. Bucky adjusts his gaze to account for the excess height and suddenly he's looking at Clint Barton. In the flesh. Again. But this time much closer and more real and out of his uniform.

“Wh–?”

“Hey.” Barton squints at him. “Do I know you? You look scary familiar.”

Bucky is dressed miles away from his game attire, wearing his big green hoodie that says _Merry Christmas Ya Filthy Animal_ even though it's September and his hair is unstyled and falling into his face. He doesn't look like the mysterious handsome fellow in the crowd that he dressed up as and puts an act on for. Right now he's just Bucky Barnes buying ice cream for when he watches _Desperate Housewives _later and somehow he's glad that Clint doesn't connect the two people.

Another part of him is disappointed. He shakes his head.

“I guess I just have one of those faces,” he says tightly.

“Oh.” Clint frowns. “Well, I'm sorry for startling you. You're right, it's none of my business. You gonna make a milkshake or something?”

Then that stupid goofy grin is back on his face and Bucky is helpless in the face of it. It makes his heart flutter from fifty feet away, did he really think he'd be able to resist it from an arm's length?

“No. Just comfort food straight from the carton.”

Clint shifts his weight from foot to foot and Bucky can't for the life of him decipher any of his body language. It's beyond awkward, just standing here in his pajamas and wanting nothing more than to squeeze past Clint and end this moment. But Clint looks like he wants to say something. Or maybe he just wants to get into the freezer that Bucky is standing in front of. 

Who knows? Not Bucky.

But then Clint speaks up.

“I recommend some chocolate sauce on that.”

Bucky nods. “Thanks.” And then makes his escape.

And if he eats the whole pint in one sitting and makes himself sick with it because he was too stupid to just tell Clint that he's the guy in the front row at every game, that's between him and Alpine.

☆

Bucky misses the World Series qualifying game. 

Tony holds him up and then his Uber is ten different kinds of late to taking him to therapy and then his anxiety spikes when he sees that he's only going to have half an hour to his usual hour so he spends the whole half hour trying to calm down. And then by the time he can breathe properly his time is up and he sets himself off all over again. His therapist takes pity on him and lets him start over, assures him that there isn't an appointment after his, and keeps him for an hour and a half instead of just the hour.

By then, he's shaky and unsure about venturing onto the subway and all too aware that traffic this close to the start of the game is going to be hell. 

So he goes home, knowing he won't be in any state of mind to enjoy it. He turns the game on his TV with the volume all the way down and lets Alpine purring in his lap calm him down. 

Bucky watches as Barton turns to the stands beaming and catches sight of Bucky's empty seat.

Bucky might be imagining the way the smile falls from his face, but it's definitely real life when Barton misses the game winning catch.

It takes every ounce of Bucky’s willpower to not feel like he's the reason the Yankees didn't qualify for the World Series.

He's not that special.

☆

The worst thing about being friends with Tony Stark is that the guy never does anything by halves, and that includes every half baked holiday designed to be a money trap. 

Everyone calls Bucky a buzzkill, like _he’s _the crazy one for not wanting to celebrate _Halloween._

“It’s for children and adults who want to act like children,” he explains heartily.

He’s standing in Tony’s penthouse kitchen doing his damndest to get drunk enough to ignore the fact that he’s wearing his first Halloween costume since he was ten. It's not really working, though, like someone watered down all the beers. His wire halo is starting to fall off of his head and his wings are all sideways and his words are barely starting to slur. The redhead beside him – her name starts with an N. Natalie? Natasha! – is dressed like… what’s she dressed like? She’s got devil horns on her head, dressed in an all black leather jumpsuit. It’s on the tip of his tongue.

“What are you even?” is what comes out instead.

Natasha smirks at him. 

“Nothing. Just me.”

“Natasha.” Bucky tries the name out a few times. It sounds familiar. She quirks an eyebrow at him while he trails off. “Natasha…”

“Yep. That’s me,” she says.

“Why do I know you? We’ve never met. I know you, though.”

“You’re Steve’s friend,” Natasha points out. There’s a ruckus somewhere in the other room. “The one in the Stark prosthetics trial. We’ve met a few times. Pepper loves you.”

Bucky is sure that were he in a cartoon the camera would be dramatically zoomed in on his face right about now. Natasha has said that she didn’t have to travel far to make it here. She was probably already in the building, just like he was. 

Fuck his life, he’s hanging out with Clint Barton’s best friend.

“Yeah…” _Okay Bucky… play it cool._ “So you know Barton? The baseball player?” Then he puts his straw to his lips so he doesn’t say anything else.

“Yeah. I know him.” Natasha laughs, a downright cackle at a joke that only she’s in on. “I don’t know how he does it.”

“Does what?”

She shakes her head, still smirking. “Gets everyone to fall for him.”

It's pure irony that sends the kitchen door swinging open and what is unmistakably Clint Barton falling through it. And Bucky is so fixated on the fact that he'd know that ass in those pinstripes anywhere that it takes him a moment to clock the girl that's attached to him by the lips. The messy way he trips over his own feet and sloshes his drink all over the floor is light years from the swift precision and competence he exhibits on the field. He's clumsy and handsy and towering over her to push her into the counter, and Bucky’s mouth has gone very dry.

Natasha clears her throat rather loudly. Bucky feels his face heat up with secondhand embarrassment.

“Real classy, Barton.”

But apparently Bucky is the only one embarrassed because Clint is pulling away to smirk at Natasha, heavy lidded and smug while his _companion _rolls her eyes and tugs on his jersey where the top three buttons are undone.

“Mind your business,” she says, ice in her tone. 

Clint's smile deflates at that. 

“Hey,” he snaps, “Don't talk to my best friend like that.”

And just like that he's taking hold of her wrists and handing them back to her as he takes a large step back. _Now_ Bucky's not the only one that's embarrassed. She shuffles out off the kitchen, a scowl on her face.

_Don't be rude to Natasha, _Bucky thinks, _Noted._

“Welp, guess I just sabotaged my own chances of getting laid.” Clint shrugs and hops up to sit on the countertop. He looks at Bucky for the first time since entering the room. “Have we met? You look so familiar.”

Bucky resists the urge to blurt out _Yeah, you do I was at like every game this season and you saw me at a charity thing and I ran into you in the supermarket that one time last month and I flirt with you from the stands but I still don't think you know that I'm half in love with you even though the only time I leave my house is to go watch you play baseball because you look so happy doing it that it makes me happy, too_. 

But after throwing away that thought, he's unable to come up with anything else. His mouth drops open, but nothing comes out. The three of them just look at each other as the kitchen gets eerily silent and the music from the party threatens to spill in from the other room.

“He's friends with Tony,” Natasha interjects helpfully. She nudges Bucky with her elbow. “Right?”

Bucky nods stupidly as Clint pushes his hair off of his forehead. He's lightly swinging his feet and his heels are hitting the cupboard below and he doesn't have_ shoes on_. He's just sitting there in his uniform all comfortable and soft with an intensely interested look on his face like he's waiting for Bucky to say something.

Shit, he is.

“Um, right. Yeah. He's my best friend’s fiancé, so we're friends by proxy for the most part. But, uh, I'm the reason he started up Stark Prosthetics.”

Oh good, no now he's oversharing to compensate for the lack of anything interesting to say. 

But Clint doesn't look put off. It's anything he looks even more interested, and he perks up.

“No way. _You're_ Barnes the War Hero? The Sergeant that's saved Steve? Man, Tony never shut up about you when he was starting the trial. He was so…” Clint shakes his head and downs the rest of his drink. “God I hope this doesn't come out the wrong way but like, I was always trying to talk him into making stuff for people with disabilities. It was like, my pet peeve that he was sitting on cutting edge technology and billions of dollars and only making smartphones and shit. He made my hearing aids and they're_ great_ and I just didn't get why he wouldn't expand on that.” Clint sighs. “Like, I’m sorry you lost your arm, but a lot of people – kids, poor people – are going to get access to stuff they couldn't before and it all started with that kick ass prosthetic of yours. Again, sorry if I'm being insensitive. I'm just really glad something got through to him. People don't ask to be disabled and it's hard to ask for help, you know? I like being a surrogate voice for people who aren't as fortunate as me.”

And if Bucky was smitten before, he doesn't have a _chance_ now. 

“Wow,” he says dumbly.

Clint probably doesn't hear him because he just pointedly looks at Bucky and keeps talking. He talks about charities he tries to get involved in, about donating to schools to help with accessibility, about how he just wants everyone to have the same opportunities to be the best they can be, and not have to face the same unnecessary obstacles that he did.

And Bucky is helpless to do anything but bask in his glow and listen.

Clint gets spectacularly drunk. It takes Bucky a little while to notice that he's downing full cups of beer with every sip that Bucky takes from his own bottle. And as the night ambles on, Clint drifts closer and closer. Pretty soon he's hanging off of Bucky as loosely as Bucky is hanging onto his slurred words. He's warm against Bucky's back, his laughter like wind chimes in Bucky's ear. The height difference between them makes it easy for Clint to drape himself over Bucky, and Bucky can't even be bothered to hide the way he's probably looking up at Clint like he's the best damn thing he's ever seen. His smile is as infectious as it's always been, and the smirks that Steve and Sam send him from across the room aren't going to keep Bucky from the grip he has on Clint's wrists where they're crossed over his chest.

But sooner rather than later the whole kitchen clears out, and then the party, and then it's just him and Clint on Tony's couch while Natasha and Steve bicker on the balcony about something or another. Tony disappeared about an hour ago and Bucky suspects that he has some sort of weird sex surprise for Steve. 

Bucky had said, “Ditching your own party, huh?”

And Tony just waggled his eyebrows and blew him a kiss. 

It was horrific. 

But he's not thinking about that anymore. He's thinking about how Clint’s jersey got lost in the shuffle – dancing on tables and jell-o shots and karaoke – and now he's just in a white tank top half asleep on Bucky's shoulder mumbling about the World Series. Bucky means to respond but he gets distracted by how fucking pretty Clint is up close with his fading freckles and his hair stuck to his forehead. He looks the way he looks at the end of a game, perfectly disheveled and hopelessly charming. And Bucky is trying very hard not to move so that he doesn't scare Clint away. But his arm is starting to go numb under the weight of him, so he shuffles just a bit. Predictably and disappointingly, Clint sits up.

“You're a good pillow,” he says. “Don't go.”

“I'm not going anywhere.”

Bucky pats his own shoulder and Clint resituates himself so that he's properly tucked into Bucky's neck. He's so so warm and Bucky might start growling if anyone comes in and disturbs them.

It's embarrassing, the way Bucky's heart is pounding just because a pretty boy is drunk and wants to lean all over him. And it's even worse when Clint shifts so that he's fully pressed up against Bucky's side, probably two seconds away from snoring. Even so, Bucky tries to sneak his hand closer to Clint just to brush his knuckles up against his knee. And it's not just because it's actual Yankees uniform material, but because it's _Clint._ It's big hearted, good with kids, disabled and successful, ray of sunshine, makes everyone feel special Clint Barton. Bucky lets the back of his hand rest against the meat of Clint's thigh and revels in the private point of contact. 

Bucky doesn't know when he got this invested. He barely knows the guy.

But he wants to. He really really wants to.

The balcony door slams open and the two of them jump apart. 

“Going home any time soon, losers?” Steve says.

Hand to God Bucky could rip his head off right now.

He smiles tightly. “You can go on Steve, I think I can manage getting home in one piece.” Then, because Bucky lives to embarrass him, “I think Tony's waiting for you, anyway. Said something about you looking good enough to eat?”

Steve turns bright red in record time and practically runs out of the room. Something like smugness swells up in him as Natasha laughs harder than she's laughed all night. 

When she stops, she smiles softly at them.

_He doesn't know who you are,_ she signs carefully, slowly so Bucky catches every word, _You should tell him._

Bucky chances a glance down at where Clint, who's somehow fallen asleep, has started to slide off his shoulder and down his chest. For no reason at all, everything feels so fragile. Bucky doesn't know if this soft, nerdy version of himself that's dying to love Clint Barton the _person_ can measure up to the cool, collected persona that caught the eye of Clint Barton the _baseball player_.

Natasha is still watching him, waiting for a response.

_What if it changes things?_

_It won't,_ she says firmly. 

And well, she knows him better than anyone.

☆

Bucky wakes up because he can't breathe. There's a weight on his chest that's too pressing to be Alpine and he almost panics. But then he opens his eyes, sees the familiar set up of Tony's trashed penthouse living room and remembers. One glance down at his chest confirms that he's got Clint asleep on top of him.

Which is… an ideal situation. But not for his lungs, apparently.

So he shifts up as carefully as possible, but it's futile. Clint blinks awake and rolls over so that he's sandwiched in between Bucky and the back of the couch. He looks a mess, his hair sticking up in twelve different directions and marks from Bucky's shirt lining his cheek. Bucky has never wanted to kiss him more.

“Mmm. Morning,” he says grumpily. “Ugh. Feel gross.”

Bucky hums in amusement. “Yeah. I'd be surprised if you didn't. But you're more than welcome to stay, Tony doesn't care.”

Then it's Clint's turn to sound amused.

“I know.”

Oh, right. “Sorry. Forgot you guys were friends and all that. It's weird.”

Clint sits up, but doesn't actually move anywhere. He's still pressed right up against Bucky, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and groaning.

“What are you talking about? I live here.”

Bucky only feels slightly winded by that as he jerks his head to look at Clint quizzically.

“What?! No you don't. _I _live here. I'd notice if you did, too.”

“Okay… but I do?” Clint mirrors his expression. “That's why it's so weird that we've never met. I bumped into you the day you moved in, and we haven't spoken since. I see you in the elevators sometimes, but you're really quiet. Always with the headphones. I don't like to bother you.”

“But that day at the supermarket–”

“That was_ you?!” _

Bucky’s brain kind of short circuits, thinking about all the ways he's probably accidentally run into his neighbor Clint Barton without realizing he was baseball player Clint Barton. It's the same stupid thing he was upset about when Clint didn't recognize him out of context, meanwhile he's been doing it to Clint all along. And everything Bucky was worried about seems so trivial. Their paths have crossed and narrowly missed each other, looping around like a child’s messy drawing. _They've been living in the same building the whole goddamn time. _Something in Bucky snaps at the realization.

“Clint, I’m the loser that's been camped out in the front row of your section all season.”

And for the first time that Bucky has seen, Clint is speechless. So Bucky waits, watches as Clint's brain puts together the fragmented pieces that make up the story of them.

“But–” His eyebrows furrow. “You're not– He… Oh, _shit_. We're stupid.” Clint seems slightly more awake now, running his hands through his hair and looking endlessly amused. “We're _so_ stupid.”

Bucky can't help but smile. “I guess we are.” 

“Aw.” Clint lists sideways so that he falls into Bucky's shoulder, clearly trusting that he'll catch him. Bucky does. “I guess we should go on a real date and stuff. That way I can buy you nice things and you can live your dream of dating a jock.”

“That's not my _dream_,” Bucky counters with a laugh. 

“You have to admit that it's appealing, though.”

“Sure. But only because it’s you.” 

Clint makes a sound that's neither here nor there and brushes off the obvious compliment. 

“Where did you learn sign, by the way? You can't be deaf too, they never would've let you in the military but… God it made my day when you signed back to me, you have no idea.”

“Army buddy grew up with a deaf sister,” Bucky says on autopilot. He thinks his brain is melting. “He taught anyone that wanted to learn, and it was really handy. Saved my life more than once.”

Clint lights up. “God, you're perfect.”

Then he's grinning, bright and contagious, and Bucky thinks he could love him.


End file.
